'Tis above poor Sir John7,
Nor by Sands could be done, And Bootle 's too stupid and dark ;
Ord8 hardly reads well,
Jeff9 never could spell, And you know Harry Vane sets his mark.
Then since all your tools
Are such ignorant fools, It must be your lordship's own doing;
You have taken your pli,
But you'll soon own with me, That you've settl'd yourself in your ruin.
As diff'rent winds blew,
Like the weather-cock you Long waver'd both parties betwixt;
But did not you know,
That weather-cocks grow Quite useless the moment they're fix'd?
The Duke of Argyll is dead—a death of how little moment, and of how much it would have been a year or two ago10! It is provoking, if one must die, that one can't even die apropos!
How does your friend Dr. Cocchi ? You never mention him; do only knaves and fools deserve to be spoken of? Adieu!
133. To HOBACE MAITN.
Arlington Street, Oct. 12, 1743.
THEY had sent your letter of Sept. 24th to Houghton the very night I came to town. I did not receive it back till
7 Sir John Rushout.
8 Sandys' neeretaiy. TTolpole.
8 John. Jeffries, Secretary to the Treasury.
10 John Campbell, Duke of Argyll and Greenwich. He had sunk into complete political insignificance.